


What's The Worst That I Can Say?

by rainy_fangirl



Series: songfics [3]
Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Based on a My Chemical Romance Song, Car Accidents, Child Death, Everybody Dies, F/M, Heavy Angst, Hurt No Comfort, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, I set this where I live, Post-Divorce, Sad Ending, Songfic, Sorry Not Sorry, Soulmates, Why Did I Write This?, a shitty excuse for a christmas fic, deals heavily with mourning and how a dead child affects families, referenced moriel elucien and eliriel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-11
Updated: 2017-12-11
Packaged: 2019-02-13 07:44:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12979353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rainy_fangirl/pseuds/rainy_fangirl
Summary: "When every star fall brought you to tears again."Marriage, birth, death, divorce, in that order.





	What's The Worst That I Can Say?

_{Long ago_ _  
_ _Just like the hearse, you die to get in again_   
We are so far from you}

The papers were gone, filed away as neatly as they had come. Marriage, birth, death, divorce, in that order. The organization of it all comforted Feyre in a twisted sort of way, a patterned sequence she could understand. The real events hadn't been quite as simple. She had worn black for a year and a half, Feyre hadn't touched Rhys for longer than that. Hadn't spoken. These days, she could barely meet his eyes.

 _  
_ _{Burning on just like a match you strike to incinerate_ _  
_ _The lives of everyone you know_ _  
_ _And what's the worst you take_ _  
_ _From every heart you break_ _  
_ _And like the blade you stain_ _  
_ _Well, I've been holding on tonight}_   


It was all a mistake, something Rhysand wishes he could take back. She would have been better with Tamlin, happier, even. He wants to blame himself, which makes it all the more destructive. This wouldn’t have happened with somebody else, this wouldn’t have happened if he’d left her alone. Babies die. The doctors had said. It happens. They’d tried so hard, Rhys hadn’t believed it when Feyre had come back with two pink lines. He hadn’t believed it while they picked out nursery colors with Feyre and her swollen stomach. He had when he’d woken to the sound of her screaming, when the nurses had come rushing in. The house, all too new, is lonely without her.

 _  
_ _{What's the worst that I can say?_ _  
_ _Things are better if I stay_ _  
_ _So long and goodnight_ _  
_ _So long and goodnight}_   


Feyre sees things in shades of grey, the previously bright colors around the house that he’d picked out faded and chipped. She doesn’t see any of them for months, their small circle who’d treated her like family. She hadn’t seen her sisters since the funeral, Nesta, cold as ever holding a quivering Elain as the all too tiny coffin is lowered into the ground. They’d buried their little boy with Rhy’s parents, while her own had been despondent and shitty, his had done their job to the best of their ability. Being a parent is hard, she knows this, even with no child to show for it.

 _  
_ _{Came a time_ _  
_ _When every star fall brought you to tears again_ _  
_ _We are the very hurt you sold}_   


They come to him, Cass, and Az, Mor, and occasionally Lucien or the remaining Archeron sisters. Flocking to his cold house like vultures to rotting meat. They cook for him, remind him when to sleep, attempt small talk. It’s been two years, but it feels like longer. Nobody’s talked to Feyre, but Mor and Lucien make it a point to check in on her every once in awhile, steaming pots of homemade soup on the porch, tiny bouquets from Elain’s shop in the mailbox. Neither of them have sought out romance since, but it doesn’t make anyone feel better. Soulmates, no more, no less. Love, sexual attraction, was just a bonus. He knew well enough from Azriel, Mor, Elain, and Lucien. They were all tragic, all unlucky, Rhysand should’ve expected as much.

 _  
_ _{And what's the worst you take_ _  
_ _From every heart you break_ _  
_ _And like the blade you stain_ _  
_ _Well, I've been holding on tonight}_   


She had helped Feyre burn the wedding dress, her cold, eldest sister expressionless as the thin, soft fabric went up in smoke and ashes. Nesta was the right person to call, she gave no pity, took no prisoners. Nesta didn’t ask questions, something Feyre takes comfort in as she watches the burning dress melt the snow around it. She keeps the ring, along with all the photos in the bottom left drawer, where he used to keep pictures of his family. Tiny mementos. What she had meant to be a month long break had turned into a divorce, had turned into two years of waking up with a cold side of the bed. Feyre couldn’t stop.  

 _  
_ _{And if you carry on this way_ _  
_ _Things are better if I stay_ _  
_ _So long and goodnight_ _  
_ _So long and goodnight}_   


It was comical, really, the screech of brakes, a snow covered country road, a late December night where the sun sets at 3 pm. The grinding of steel on steel, Feyre and Rhysand crashing into each other once again. The EMTs arrived too late, it had been a good half hour before anybody had caught sight of the steaming wreckage. They were unlucky, that was all, her dying instantly of a pulverised rib cage, him, much later, of a seeping head wound. Practically on top of each other, ironic to nobody except their few family members. One leaving the graveyard, one going to it. It’s all together haunting, the blood splattered snow, the smoke drifting out of the shredded engines. They find wedding pictures in her purse, an almost discarded ring. Flowers in his back seat, yellow roses (she hated red). A note. It had been scorched when the police had retrieved it, nearly soaked through with her blood too, but they had still tried to decipher it. Come home, I need you, I miss you, I’m drowning, I wish he was still here too. It was all too tragic, too short lived.  

 _  
_ _{Can you hear me?_ _  
_ _Are you near me?_ _  
_ _Can we pretend_ _  
_ _To leave and then_ _  
_ _We'll meet again_ _  
_ _When both our cars collide.}_   


Mor and Nesta reach a casual, silent companionship, working things out and slowly stitching back the remains of their so called family. There are more papers now: Marriage, Birth, Death, Divorce, Death, Death. It’s quieter now, there is no taking of sides, no whispered and not so whispered fights on what to do, how to deal with the fact that nothing had worked out as planned. It was safe to say that none of them had expected this, but it was strange, the fact that so many tragedies had happened to so little people. There were three coffins now, two adult sized ones, and a much smaller one between them. Yellow roses and candles on each. The inner circle doesn’t stretch thin, like discarded snowflakes. They take each other in, somehow closer than before, all seven living members piled together in a bed to keep warm when there was none to begin with. Even Amren, cold, cold Amren flies in every weekend from her oh so perfect new life in California, face blank and silver eyes expressionless. Nesta and Elain miss their little sister, but then again, they’d been missing her ever since she hadn’t been herself. There had been theories that it was suicide, theories that he was on his way to apologize. But theories were theories, nothing more, nothing less. Nobody could say for sure. The only thing they could be certain of: the short lives of Feyre, Rhysand, and Isaac Archeron had been miserable and painful, and tragic, but all in all, unregrettable, passionate, and utterly magical.

  



End file.
